Happy Fake St. Patricks Day
I'm typing quietly, with the lights out, so they don't know I'm in here. Rations are low but must last until tomorrow. Each noise from the outside sends shivers down my spine. I cover my head with a pillow to drown it out, praying it will end.
It is fake St. Patrick's Day in Hoboken.
Oh, sure, there are 16 days until the actual St. Patrick's Day, but don't tell that to any of the corrupt, money-hungry weasels involved in fake St. Patrick's Day. For this is the day of Hoboken's St. Patrick's Day Parade. Why isn't it held on St. Patrick's Day? I've heard it's to avoid conflicts with New York City's and other local parades, who are booking the same marching bands. But it's awful convenient that fake St. Patrick's Day is always on a Saturday, allowing a full day of revelry in a city already swimming in alcohol. And guess what, bar owners: On actual St. Patrick's Day, it all happens again.
Hey, go easy, it's an Irish town. Well, no, it isn't. The Italians arrived after World War I and never left. But in fairness, the Irish did rule the roost here prior to that. Shortly after the Germans, that is.
The fact is, Hoboken doesn't need a reason to celebrate. It's been described as having the most bars per square mile in these United States. (I've also heard that characterization applied to La Crosse, Wisconsin. Can we really trust any statistics gathered by drunks, anyway?) On weekend evenings, the countless taverns along the main drag are teeming with a subset of the justifiably much-maligned Jersey "bridge-and-tunnel" crowd—the subset that is too cheap to pay the toll into Manhattan.
On fake St. Patrick's Day, the madness extends beyond Hoboken's main thoroughfare, to every single establishment with a liquor license within the Mile Square City. And if you have the ability to pour, congratulations, you can obtain a liquor license here. And it's all day long. Granted, that's improved slightly—the bars now open at 11 a.m. rather than at 6 a.m. Nonetheless, the day is still a descent into Frat-Boy Hell. Outside even the most nondescript residential-block watering hole, there is an unruly line of red-faced, green-plastic-hat (or backwards baseball cap, your choice!) and green-T-shirt-over-white-longjohns-top-wearing loud, drunken morons. Oh yes, and the Mardi Gras-style green beads, I can't forget those. They roam in packs from bar to bar to house party to bar, stopping briefly at every street corner to laugh maniacally, call some "dude" on the cell phone, urinate, and/or vomit. You cannot look out a window at any moment during the day or night without glimpsing a drunken idiot (or 2, or 15) weaving down the street. With the occasional punctuation of a police siren.
I've lived here almost 14 years, and it is hands-down my least favorite day in Hoboken all year. Perhaps my least favorite day anywhere. I skip town when I can, and if not—like today—I batten down the hatches, quietly seethe, and wait it out. Like microwave popcorn, eventually the gap increases between each hooting-and-hollering session on the street below. Until there is no more, and it is once again safe.
But that's hours from now.
Many, many hours.
I could really use a drink.
It is fake St. Patrick's Day in Hoboken.
Oh, sure, there are 16 days until the actual St. Patrick's Day, but don't tell that to any of the corrupt, money-hungry weasels involved in fake St. Patrick's Day. For this is the day of Hoboken's St. Patrick's Day Parade. Why isn't it held on St. Patrick's Day? I've heard it's to avoid conflicts with New York City's and other local parades, who are booking the same marching bands. But it's awful convenient that fake St. Patrick's Day is always on a Saturday, allowing a full day of revelry in a city already swimming in alcohol. And guess what, bar owners: On actual St. Patrick's Day, it all happens again.
Hey, go easy, it's an Irish town. Well, no, it isn't. The Italians arrived after World War I and never left. But in fairness, the Irish did rule the roost here prior to that. Shortly after the Germans, that is.
The fact is, Hoboken doesn't need a reason to celebrate. It's been described as having the most bars per square mile in these United States. (I've also heard that characterization applied to La Crosse, Wisconsin. Can we really trust any statistics gathered by drunks, anyway?) On weekend evenings, the countless taverns along the main drag are teeming with a subset of the justifiably much-maligned Jersey "bridge-and-tunnel" crowd—the subset that is too cheap to pay the toll into Manhattan.
On fake St. Patrick's Day, the madness extends beyond Hoboken's main thoroughfare, to every single establishment with a liquor license within the Mile Square City. And if you have the ability to pour, congratulations, you can obtain a liquor license here. And it's all day long. Granted, that's improved slightly—the bars now open at 11 a.m. rather than at 6 a.m. Nonetheless, the day is still a descent into Frat-Boy Hell. Outside even the most nondescript residential-block watering hole, there is an unruly line of red-faced, green-plastic-hat (or backwards baseball cap, your choice!) and green-T-shirt-over-white-longjohns-top-wearing loud, drunken morons. Oh yes, and the Mardi Gras-style green beads, I can't forget those. They roam in packs from bar to bar to house party to bar, stopping briefly at every street corner to laugh maniacally, call some "dude" on the cell phone, urinate, and/or vomit. You cannot look out a window at any moment during the day or night without glimpsing a drunken idiot (or 2, or 15) weaving down the street. With the occasional punctuation of a police siren.
I've lived here almost 14 years, and it is hands-down my least favorite day in Hoboken all year. Perhaps my least favorite day anywhere. I skip town when I can, and if not—like today—I batten down the hatches, quietly seethe, and wait it out. Like microwave popcorn, eventually the gap increases between each hooting-and-hollering session on the street below. Until there is no more, and it is once again safe.
But that's hours from now.
Many, many hours.
I could really use a drink.
Labels: Hoboken, St. Patrick's Day
posted by Jack Silbert at
2:05 PM
4 Comments:
You just saved me (and the millions of people who read my blog) a rant-filled post. I went out at 11 a.m. and yup, there were lines to get into the bars. And they suspend all parking regulations! It's like they're saying, "We'll ticket the shit out of you any other day in the name of safety, but on this day of days, we'll overlook it. . . because with all the drunken asshole drivers AND pedestrians out there, Hoboken's bound to be safer without parking regulations today."
I think my favorite year was when a bunch of drunkies outside a bar got into a fight with a bunch of kids and wound up throwing an empty medical collection box (you know, those metal things you put blood samples into) at the kids. Fun, fun, fun.
This is a frightful tale! My husband used to live in a basement apartment off 5th avenue, and drunkards would vomit green sludge down the grating during the Real St. Patrick's Day parade.
When you ventured out in the streets, did you find any offal or bodies?
When I ventured out this morning, I spotted broken beer bottles on one corner, and vomit on one sidewalk.
To anyone reading this comment, please click on Jenny Phresh's name and read her blog, she is a wonderful, hilarious writer!
I googled the phrase "most bars per square mile". The top three results were votes for Highbrook, IL, South Amboy, NJ and Hoboken. All three claimed to have the GUINNESS RECORD for most bars per square mile, which obviously inspired by drinking too much of the titular brew.
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